


dance with you, honey

by lesbianbuckys



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Courferre Week, Dancing, Domestic, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, implied sexual content but nothing graphic, slight angst at the beginning but not really, well the relationship gets established at the beginning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-27 18:49:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15031016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbianbuckys/pseuds/lesbianbuckys
Summary: Courfeyrac grabbed his hand with suggestively raised eyebrows, a silent invitation. Combeferre felt his heart lurch into his throat as his mouth split into a grin. He revelled in the sight - Courfeyrac, dancing to ABBA in his kitchen, wearing nothing but socks and one of Combeferre’s shirts that was two sizes too large, as the smell of coffee and sugar wafted around them.Or in which, Combeferre can't help but dance.





	dance with you, honey

**Author's Note:**

> this is supposed to be for the courferre week 2018, day 1 prompt (domesticity), but i'm going to be travelling inter-state during courferre week so i'd thought i'd write something early.

When Combeferre woke, the first thing he noticed was the sunlight-streaked light filtering through his windows, catching floating dust in golden rays and casting splintering shadows on the ground. That was odd, he thought, he never left the blinds open in the night, but his body was too heavy, too burdened to wake up fully enough to linger on that thought, like his skin was a dense, weighty net, trapping him to the confines of his bed. Combeferre, however surprisingly, was not a morning person. He could force himself to wake up early, but it can at a drastic cost to his sanity, so he prefered not to most of the time, and today was no exception, so he let the tension drain from muscles as he pulled the blanket around his head.

He sunk lower into the sheets, relaxing his shoulders and stretching out across what seemed like miles of bare linen, limbs falling into nothing. That was the second thing he noticed - his bed was empty.

It wasn’t empty last night.

Memories of the night before flooded his still hazy and sleep-wracked brain - scenes of  _ him,  _ and endless oceans of skin on skin and hands skirting down his back and desperate, hungry kisses, as if he was devouring the world whole and  _ oh. _

The bed was  _ empty. _

_ Fucking shit.  _

This was a mistake. Combeferre had ruined it, he had ruined the most intense friendship he could ever conceive of, and now the person who knew him so intimately, as familiar as the back of his hand would want nothing to do with him, all for the sake of one night of being pressed together, chest to chest and  _ “oh, Combeferre!”  _ and two bodies in a sea of sheets and... fuck. He was fucking screwed.

He could hear movement from outside his bedroom, the faint wafting of music and irregular, undefined thumps. No point in avoiding the inevitable. He pulled on a pair of boxers and a shirt from the scattered clothes on the ground, thrown haphazardly in the...rush of the night before, and plodded into the kitchen, heart drumming like a bird, trapped in the cold cage of his chest, beating in his ears to a staccato rhythm.

Courfeyrac had his back to Combeferre, focused on the rising, sizzling heat from the stove in front of him, shoulders bopping to a trashy eighties song playing from the speakers Combeferre keeps in his kitchen. It was hard not to feel fond, not when Courfeyrac was so goddamn  _ endearing,  _ and it really wasn’t any surprise that Combeferre fell in love with him. He remembered coming to that realisation with no anxiety, seamlessly slipping into a heart-wrenching yet warm and safe  _ longing,  _ utter longing, as natural as love itself, a constant pull that hummed deep down to his bones. 

He didn’t regret falling in love. He couldn’t even bring himself to regret last night, he was too selfish for that.

Courfeyrac turned to him, beaming brightly in the morning sun and  _ god,  _ he was a radiant vision, “I didn’t realise you were awake,” he said with the widest smile on his face, and Combeferre knew wouldn’t take back a second with him, not for all the agonising, desolating heartbreak to come, “I’ve got pancakes on the way, and there’s coffee ready if you want some.”

This boy was perfect.

Combeferre went to pour himself some coffee, body tensing in a way that felt so alien to him as he stood next to Courfeyrac. He glanced Combeferre up and down, eyes squinting and crinkling at the corners like he normally did whenever he knew something was wrong - Combeferre would have cursed Courfeyrac’s keen, empathetic intuition, but there was nothing Combeferre didn’t love about him. This would be the part where he would tell Combeferre, softly and kindly of course, he didn’t have a mean bone in his body, that they shouldn’t see each other again, that they both wanted different things. Combeferre would accept it. He would recover, rebuild, survive. He could move on.

(Oh, who was he kidding? It would destroy him.)

Courfeyrac’s hand grasped his wrist, before ghosting his fingers lightly up Combeferre’s arm and it felt too familiar to last night, to the sensation of roaming hands, lower and lower and the way Courfeyrac traced the dark lines of his tattoos after, across his torso, up his shoulders, snaking around his elbow. Combeferre couldn’t take it anymore and pulled away abruptly. 

Confusion dawned across Courfeyrac’s face, before morphing into realisation, “You’re nervous, about last night.”

He stood frozen, staring at him before turning away with a sigh. He busied himself with his coffee, mixing a sugar into it. He could feel Courfeyrac’s eyes, tracking his every move. Normally, he’d relish at Courfeyrac watching him, but now he felt scraped raw, like his body was on display, pulling out his insides to find out what made him tick.

The air hung heavy between them, silent aside from the sizzling of the stove and the tinny music echoing around the kitchen. Courfeyrac began swaying to the song, shoulder bumping his arm on the beat as a slow smile began to bloom. He picked up enthusiasm, dancing awfully as he sung,  _ “I can read in your face that your feelings are driving you wild.” _

Courfeyrac grabbed his hand with suggestively raised eyebrows, a silent invitation. Combeferre felt his heart lurch into his throat as his mouth split into a grin. He revelled in the sight - Courfeyrac, dancing to ABBA in his kitchen, wearing nothing but socks and one of Combeferre’s shirts that was two sizes too large, as the smell of coffee and sugar wafted around them. It was almost too perfect, like a beautiful dream, a fiction he could only imagine. 

He wrapped an arm around Courfeyrac’s waist, pressing their bodies together as they danced, Courfeyrac’s laughter ringing like windchimes, and Combeferre knew they would be okay.

-

Combeferre, contrary to popular belief,  _ loved  _ to drink. He was quite good at it, he thought. He didn’t even totally hate the times when Bahorel or Grantaire (or both at the same time) would drag their friends to a nightclub, despite the loud, thumping music that seemed to beat its way into his skull, worsened by a constant slew of fancy drinks with ridiculously high alcohol content. The idea that he  _ didn’t  _ actually drink probably began with his too-calm, serious sensibilities and the fact he never seemed overly affected by the alcohol to begin with. In short, none of his friends had ever seen him drunk, despite his affinity for Long Island Iced Teas.

Until tonight.

It wasn’t a fancy party at all. Courfeyrac had invited them around to his and Enjolras’ place (and effectively Combeferre’s place now too, considering he spent more time there than his own apartment now he was dating one of the occupants) to celebrate the end of exams, enticed by the prospect of relaxing with friends after weeks of stress, alcohol and Courfeyrac’s claim that they would have a dance floor considering they now lacked a couch, for some suspicious reason that resulted in a fit of uncontrollable laughter whenever Enjolras and Courfeyrac were asked about it.

Combeferre could feel the lingering ball of anxiety melt away in his chest as the exam period flurry dissipated from the back of his mind and the mindless noise filled the warm, lively apartment - Cosette’s and Eponine’s animated conversation from next to him, the echoing beat of pop music, bellowing, thunderous laughter that could only belong to Bahorel, the sound of sloshing drinks and feet scuttling against the floor as people danced in the space where a couch would normally be.

He could feel the alcohol in his system, warming his face, making the world seem undefinable and faintly hazy around the edges. He was loose. Released. Unattached, but in a good way, like the outside world was nothing but a shadow in his memory. His thoughts lagged behind his actual movements, which was perhaps why he left Cosette’s and Eponine’s chatter-turned-flirting behind and strode into the makeshift dance floor.

Combeferre was a drinker, but most definitely not a dancer.

He found Courfeyrac, snaking his arms around his boyfriend’s waist from behind as he pulled them closer, matching the sway of Courfeyrac’s hips as the two of them rocked to the beat. He placed a kiss to the dip in Courfeyrac’s shoulder, smiling against the skin.

Courfeyrac reached up to cup the side of his face, tilting his chin up to kiss him properly, “Who are you want what have you done with Combeferre?”

He feigned offence, “What, am I not allowed to dance with my boyfriend?”

“You never dance, especially voluntarily.”

“Hm, maybe I’m turning over a new leaf.”

Courfeyrac raised his eyebrows, “Or maybe you’re drunk.”

He grinned, shaking his head, “‘m tipsy, not drunk. There’s a difference.”

“Huh-uh,” is all Courfeyrac said as the song changed into a more upbeat, electronic pop song. He felt their movements getting more exaggerated and elaborate than simply swaying, matching Courfeyrac’s dorky motions with equal enthusiasm (but most likely lacking the same skill). He spun Courfeyrac out, before pulling him back, clashing together and feeling his reverberating laughter drum into his body. Combeferre grabbed his hips tightly, not quite grinding, as they sung along with beaming, giggling smiles _.  _ From somewhere in the apartment, someone wolf-whistled as they danced. Courfeyrac cackled into Combeferre’s collarbone, before kissing him, the taste of alcohol still lingering on his lips.

Yeah, maybe he could get used to this dancing thing.

-

The door closed with a soft clink behind Combeferre, and with it, every ounce of energy drained from his body at once, leaving him hollow and exhausted, yet still tense, stiffness boiling in his shoulders. He leaned against the wall with a sigh, dragging a hand down his face as he reminded himself the awful, horrible day was over, it was done. It didn’t help at all. His skin still felt too small, pulled taut over his bones, barely keeping him together. He was splitting at the seams. 

He could hear the shower running, almost drowned out by Courfeyrac’s dissonant singing and a small smile involuntarily broke out across his face. That’s what he needed. A shower. Warm. With Courfeyrac.

He began shedding his clothes, dropping them carelessly in the hallway as he made his way to the bathroom. Living with Courfeyrac was amazing, like a constant, warm presence that he never grew tired of. He was fine living by his own, but there was something that burned lowly in the pit of his stomach whenever he came home, only to have Courfeyrac bound up to him, throw his arms around his neck, holding another body so close Combeferre could feel his boyfriend’s breath ghosting across his skin, listening to the  _ th-thump  _ of a beating heart and blood pumping under his fingertips.

He was hit with a shocking blast of heat as he opened the bathroom door, steam rising so that the air was misty and hazy. Courfeyrac’s dark silhouette behind the shower door rocked to the music playing over his metallic phone speakers. Slipping out of the last of his clothes, he stepped into the shower, hands wrapping around Courfeyrac’s middle as Combeferre rested his forehead against his shoulder blade with a sigh, letting the hot water roll down his back, taking the pent-up tension with it as the song changed to a slow, older song from the seventies.

“Bad day?” Courfeyrac asked without even turning around.

Combeferre gave a short, humourless laugh, “The worst.”

Courfeyrac moved to face him, one hand splayed against his chest and the other resting against his cheek. His hair was wet, tight curls plastered to his forehead, rivulets of water collecting in the slight dip of his collarbones. He pressed a soft kiss to his lips as if Combeferre was made of glass and the slightest pressure could shatter him completely. He felt like it at that moment, so fragile and flimsy. The familiar sting of hot tears that he had been repressing all day began to build behind his eyes. Courfeyrac’s thumb started to trace circles by the corner of his mouth, before trailing down his neck, coming to rest on the small of his back. 

“Whatever happened today,” Courfeyrac began as Combeferre pulled him closer, “it’s alright now, I’m with you.”

Maybe it was the fact his body was drained of tension, allowing Courfeyrac to half hold him up under the spray, but he realised they were swaying to the song, Combeferre’s chin moving to rest atop of Courfeyrac’s head, pressing together, trying to be as close as possible. His fingers around Courfeyrac’s hips tightened, feeling the warm, wet skin under his palms

Combeferre let out a long exhale, “Fuck, I love you.”

Courfeyrac smiled, singing softly into Combeferre’s shoulder,  _ “since I met you baby, love's got a hold on me.” _

They were definitely slow dancing now, a little hard in the cramped shower, but that just meant they had to hold each other closer until they were one and the same, the water warm between them. Combeferre pressed a kiss to the top of Courfeyrac’s head, content to sway to the sultry music and let the spray wash over them both, until the hot water ran out.

-

They were some of the last to leave the Musain, all but kicked out as the clock gradually ticked closer to midnight, stepping out into the icy night, waving a cheery goodbye to Joly and Bossuet as the two couples turned in the opposite direction. The streets were eerily empty, suspended in an unreal bubble, as if Combeferre was viewing the world from underwater, fractured and splintering as light filtered from above. No cars rushed past. No pedestrians walked by.

Combeferre slung an arm around Courfeyrac’s shoulders, pulling him closer, partly to ward of the chill, but partly due to the elation hanging heavy in the air, almost as biting as the cold. The wintry night faded to the back of his mind, focused on Courfeyrac’s off-tune singing, echoing down the empty street, and the boiling excitement simmering in his chest.

They had been celebrating the huge protest earlier that day, several industries going on strike, including Feuilly’s union. The exhilaration had never really disappeared since, fueled by enthusiastic and equally dissonant renditions of protest songs at the Musain, much to the disdain of the other customers. Even Enjolras joined in, and he hadn’t even had a drink at that point.

It was still electrifying as Combeferre and Courfeyrac stumbled home, Courfeyrac singing,  _ “yet,  _ _ what force on earth is weaker than the feeble strength of one,”  _ barely able to keep the hint of laughter out of his voice as he rocked to imaginary music. Combeferre grinned, breath collecting in puffs of clouds, before vanishing into the frozen darkness. A red blush was creeping up Courfeyrac’s neck, radiant under the harsh, antiseptic glow of the streetlights, a stark contrast to the void of icy black surrounding them.

Courfeyrac held out his hand, silently asking a question he knew the answer to. As if Combeferre could refuse Courfeyrac anything.

He took it, both hands cold, and let Courfeyrac swing him around as they kept singing, rising louder and louder in the silent night, until the only thing that could be heard was their scuffing feet as they danced alone, to no music, and their warbling voices singing,  _ “solidarity forever, for the union makes us strong!” _

It was utterly, stupidly ridiculous, dancing in the middle of the night under the streetlamps to union songs with Courfeyrac, but he was intoxicating. Combeferre couldn’t bring himself to stop, point out that they were in public, he supposed it didn’t matter. He mimicked Coufeyrac’s movements, gliding across the frosty pavement as his boyfriend smiled so wide, the ice melted from the air. He slipped, crashing against Combeferre and clinging to him to say upright, pearly laughter thrumming down to his bones. He wondered how he had managed to live without this, without Courfeyrac. He was glad he didn’t have to.

So they continued home in the night, half-stumbling, half-dancing the whole way.

**Author's Note:**

> the songs they dance to in order are:
> 
> does your mother know - abba  
> make me feel - janelle monae  
> fooled around and fell in love - elvin bishop  
> solidarity forever - pete seeger
> 
>  
> 
> [follow me on tumblr xx](http://lesbianbuckys.tumblr.com/)


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